“Well, Jesus told me he died on the cross so we could go see his Dad.”
In my mind’s eye, I saw Jesus, with Colton on his lap, brushing past all
the seminary degrees, knocking down theological treatises stacked high
as skyscrapers, and boiling down fancy words like propitiation and
soteriology to something a child could understand: “I had to die on the
cross so that people on earth could come see my Dad.”
Colton’s answer to my question was the simplest and sweetest
declaration of the gospel I had ever heard. I thought again about the
difference between grown-up and childlike faith.
Driving down Broadway, I decided I liked Colton’s way better. For a
couple of minutes, I cruised along in silence. Then I turned to him and
smiled. “Hey, do you wanna preach on Sunday?”
Later that month, Colton threw me for another loop. This time, it involved
life or death.
Sonja and I have a theory: from the time a child walks until about the first
grade, one of the main tasks parents have is to keep their kids alive. No
forks in the light sockets. No blow-dryers in the bathtub. No soda cans in
the microwave. We had done a fine job with Cassie. By then, she was
seven years old and had pretty much ceased being a danger to herself and
others. Colton, though, was a different story.
As smart as he was about so many things, there was one thing he just
couldn’t seem to grasp: if a human body meets a moving car, bad things
happen.
Even though he was almost ready for kindergarten, he was still a
compact little guy, which is a nice way of saying he took after his dad and
was short for his age. He was also a ball of fire who, the instant we walked
out of a store, would take off running for the car. We were terrified that
other drivers wouldn’t be able to see him and might back over him. It
seemed that at least once or twice a week, we’d have to yank him back
from a curb or shout after him, “COLTON, STOP!” then catch up to scold
him: “You have to wait for us! You have to hold Mommy’s or Daddy’s
hand!”